


Silent friend of many distances

by Fayet



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anti-Nonhuman sentiments, Apparently I have a thing for Geralt's hair, Bathhouses, Canon-typical bathing, Character Study, Ficlet, Friendship/Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, No actual depiction of Violence but mentions of, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Tenderness, Worldbuilding, mood piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25092526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fayet/pseuds/Fayet
Summary: This is how they meet: sometimes on the road, sometimes in a city, sometimes, well, someplace else. Fitting or not, destiny always has ways to bring Jaskier and Geralt together, even though sometimes it spoils Jaskier's plans for the night.He doesn't mind. Outside it's cold and the pyres are burning and while there's nothing Jaskier can do against hatred and bigotry he can, for one single night, make a friend less cold, less worried and maybe just a little less ragged looking. Jaskier is singing a lot about Geralt, after all, and he can't have his audience think the witcher is nothing but an uncivilised creature living in caves, can he?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 45
Kudos: 253





	Silent friend of many distances

It was freezing cold this early in March, and twilight set in far too early for Jaskier's taste. A steady drizzle had been falling since he had passed through the last village hours ago, slowly drenching his clothes, turning the well-worn road he was following into a muddy disaster. Jaskier was tired, annoyed, and desperately hoping that the little town he was headed towards would finally turn up behind the next corner.

Every bend and twist of the road he kept on hoping, and when he had to wait and wait he started to see it as a personal insult, as if that damn town was hiding from him, mocking him with its cruel hide-and-seek. He was passed by travellers on horseback, soldiers galloping past without any care for the mud they were throwing around with the hooves of their horses, large merchant carts pushing him off the road into the wet roadside ditch, and nobody stopped once and asked if he needed a ride or directions. This early in spring people weren't kind to each other, just like the road wasn't kind to the fools who had ventured out in this weather, be it willingly or not. 

And maybe it wasn't only the weather that was responsible for the fact that nobody stopped to chat, and hadn't in days. The area Jaskier was traversing was currently in the firm grip of another bout of hysterics that sometimes came over the land like a plague, the terror of righteousness having seized the villages and towns. The winter had been hard this year, cold and long, and especially the poorer settlements this far to the east had gone hungry for months, their granaries exhausted quicker than expected after a summer that had been too wet for good harvests. The courts did not suffer for it but the humble people had, and where there was hunger and desperation, fire and hatred were never far off. 

Jaskier already knew the gist of it, having witnessed it too often on his extensive travels, how it flared up and then smouldered while the bones of those the hands of the desperate and blinded had grasped burnt on the pyres, black smoke rising and carrying the sickly sweet scent of burning flesh with it, death sailing on every slight breeze and disturbing his nose and equilibrium of mind. He knew he could do nothing against it and it left him angry and helpless, knowing that his weight was too slight to bring any difference, failing again and again. So he tried to avoid the areas where he knew the pyres were burning, where the hate was too loud for his ears that preferred to hear songs instead of shouts dripping with venom, knowing they didn't have need for his services anyway, that they couldn't hear the music when their ears were blocked to anything resembling humanity. 

He hadn't known that these parts of the lands were currently infected with this most horrible of all illnesses when he had decided to take the roads through what he remembered to be a lovely landscape, and when he had noticed it had been too late to turn back. So he had pushed on, once or twice avoided entering a town when he noticed the fire and smoke, staying on the outskirts if he could, if it wasn't too dangerous. Even the rain hadn't quenched the flames, and the smell was still in the air, in his clothes and hair. He wanted nothing but to pass through this area as fast as possible, but travel on foot was slow and the weather not too helpful. So he soldiered on, step by step, reeling on the inside, angry but unable to do anything. 

So when Jaskier finally turned the corner and the promised town suddenly appeared in front of him he couldn't decide if he wanted to curse or sigh in relief. It took him half an hour longer before he arrived, passed by the two sentinels at the entrance with only some minor debating after being able to prove that he was entirely human, and finding the little settlement a gloomy place, the unpaved streets muddy and deserted, windows already shut against the onset of darkness. 

He dropped off his belongings in the only tavern in town where the owner simply grunted an unfavourable answer at his enquiry if entertainment for the evening was an option, and turned down like this Jaskier had nothing to do. His purse was of an acceptable weight anyway, and the refusal wasn't too terrible for him. It left him more time to do something else, and the something else in the case of this little town was exactly what he needed tonight. 

The bathhouse had a reputation that preceded it. That in itself wasn't too difficult in this inhospitable part of the continent, where public bathhouses were few and far between. But this one was special in a very particular way. Surrounded by villages and towns where the pyres of bigotry were burning bright this place had the reputation of not turning those down that usually would fuel the fires with their flesh. Jaskier had heard about it already when he was a week on foot away from the little town, the whispers and rumours, the scandal of a place allowing those that weren't quite entirely human into its chambers, offering them service against coin, not turning down anyone who came with a full purse and good intentions. 

It was a rare beacon of sensible mercantile behaviour in a landscape of utter stupidity, and Jaskier, being done with all the righteous preaching he had inadvertently been forced to listen to in the past week while travelling, all the terrible things they had yelled in taverns and shouted on the market squares, was more than ready for it. 

So he crossed through the little town after having deposited his bags in his room in the lousy tavern, cursed at the mud sticking to his boots, and quickly found the establishment on the outskirts of the little town. It was housed in a rather large stone structure, unusual for these areas, steam rising from the chimneys. Outside there were multiple horses tied up, some under a roof, some standing in the rain with their heads hanging, obediently awaiting their masters to return. 

Entering Jaskier immediately felt the heat. He paid an acceptable albeit not small fee to the dwarf guarding the entrance, collected a towel, and slipped into the changing rooms. Minutes later he was out of his wet clothes, hung them up neatly while hoping nobody would find them too pretty so they'd still be there when he returned, and ventured out into the maze of steam rooms, heated chambers and dipping pools. 

The establishment was bigger on the inside than it looked from the outside, and in a reasonably clean condition. Washing off the dirt from the road was wonderful, and Jaskier lingered in the room designated for the first cleansing ritual much longer than he necessarily needed to. The water was warm and relaxing, and the establishment provided scented soaps that were heavenly, leaving him smelling wonderfully when he sauntered into the first steam room. 

He passed the first hour wandering between the steam rooms and the washing rooms, drenching himself again and again until his bones were warmed up and his skin pink from being repeatedly scrubbed. There was a large, warm basin in the very centre of the bathhouse, but Jaskier saved that for last, for that wonderful moment when he'd simply slip in there to let his mind drift away, to finally relax fully. 

For now he found an alcove tucked away to the sides, offering the chance to sit a little and recover from the rituals of bathing while watching the patrons of the bathhouse mill around wandering from the steam rooms to the pools and back, all naked, some paying modesty her dues with little towels around their waists. 

Leaning back and allowing his gaze to wander a little he realised how much he had missed the diversity this area was trying to purge. Outside the pyres were burning, but here they all still were - the half-humans, the almost-humans, and the strangest ones of them all, the actual humans. Here were beautiful lean maidens and boys with elven ears betraying their heritage, small and stocky dwarves, one or two mages. There were the soldiers and sellswords with their scars and heavy shoulders, the wandering merchants and tradesmen, young journeymen, girls that had to be dancers from the way their bodies were shaped and how they carried themselves, the maids and townsmen, the wandering students and every flavour of humanity in between. 

And they were all warm and scrubbed clean, their skin slightly flushed from the heat inside, from the rituals of dowsing and drying. The entire place smelt of scented oils and bathsalts, and while everybody was relaxed the general atmosphere was one of hushed enjoyment. People were chatting with each other, smiling, winking, but their conversations were kept low. They milled around in pairs, but mostly alone. And of course there was flirting, plenty of it, Jaskier having noticed at the entrance that there were rooms to be let above the baths, available for a few hours or the entire night, at a reasonable rate, for whatever activities one would want them. 

The bathhouse was trading in a lot of different things - cleanliness, relaxation, warmth after the harsh weather outside, but it was also a refuge for lovers and those who had intentions to become them, notwithstanding the feverish preaching taking place outside its walls. It reminded Jaskier why the dwarf at the entrance had been properly armed, and he suspected that there were more guards around, well hidden to keep the illusion awake that there could just be a place like this here, that pockets of sanity could prevail where otherwise darkest stupidity had already spread out unchecked. 

Obviously Jaskier wasn't alone for long. He had barely been sitting in his little alcove for more than a few minutes, watching and being watched, when a beautiful youth slipped onto the seat next to him. With the lean body of a wandering craftsman he could barely have been more than twenty years of age, a young but lovely face with the blonde hair cut just below the ears, a soft blush from the blessed heat on his cheeks. 

It was a quick thing to get to know each other just a little, though both were not bothering to enquire each other's name. His voice betrayed his origins somewhere close to the area Jaskier was from, and they quickly discovered knowing the same geography, having a shared likening for the same undulating hills and views over the coast, an instant connection that was just enough for Jaskier. He wasn't looking for the love of his life in this bathhouse, just maybe for company for a while, and beautiful usually did the trick for him. 

But they took it slow, chatting amicably while moving onwards, by a silent agreement first enjoying the offerings of the bathhouse further. So they idled in the sauna rooms for a while, sweating profusely in silence, washing off the heat from their bodies afterwards before lounging around a bit more. Jaskier had just decided to maybe take things a little further, to speed up the proceedings lest he'd be too tired after a long day of walking and an evening of bathing when his companion proposed a final visit to the steam rooms before, well, taking things upstairs. 

Jaskier agreed, and together they sauntered across the ground level rooms, turned left through a large archway over the perfectly polished wooden planks laid down there and into the steam room. The large room was tiled, with a long row of benches protruding from the walls, the oven sitting in the middle. The air was thick with the steam, and the scented oil that had been added to it. The scent of thyme and mint was heavy in the air, giving the steam an earthy feeling vapour was not supposed to have. It settled in Jaskier's lungs, the warm wet air feeling wonderful. He could barely see anything, so he padded forwards, past the shapes of other visitors sitting on the tiled bench, bent forwards, their heads hanging low. 

Settling on the bench towards the back of the chamber Jaskier watched his new acquaintance sit down next to him, and felt the thick air settle on his skin like a wet blanket. The scent was refreshing and calming at the same time, and Jaskier breathed deeply, inhaling the steam into his lungs. Immediately his skin was wet, droplets of sweat springing up on his forehead, his hair already plastered to his head. Brushing it away from his face he combed his hands through it, looking to his right where his acquaintance sat, the first beads of sweat running down his lean back. Thinking about how it'd feel to kiss those shoulder blades later Jaskier leant back just a little to get a better view, and accidentally cast a glance around the room. 

At this moment someone on the other side stood up and exited the steam chamber, leaving the door open just a hint too long. With the steam escaping suddenly the veil that had obscured the other patrons was lifted, granting Jaskier a good view on them for a few seconds before the steam rising from the oven in the middle of the room formed enough clouds to hide them again. 

There were two women sitting next to each other, staring dreamily into nowhere and enjoying the warmth, and an elderly man with an enormous beard looking a lot like he'd be a mage, and, on the other side of the wall all on his own a tall man Jaskier hadn't noticed before. The steam welled up before he could get a full view on him, but he managed to pick up on a few details while staring hard, and it wasn't difficult to put them together. 

Staring, Jaskier knew, was utterly unbecoming in a situation like this. Bathhouses depended on the illusion that nobody saw anything, that people just looked through each other. It made being naked together with a lot of strangers more palatable, creating a veil of privacy where there was none at all. 

But here, right now, he couldn't help it. He had already seen too much not to try and see more, to just be absolutely sure. Now partly obscured by the drifting steam the man was leaning forwards, elbows on his knees, head hanging low, unfashionably long hair a thick wet mess, falling forward and obscuring his face. He was rather tall with a body shaped by hard work and combat with strong shoulders, arms that were used to handling heavy weapons, scars from battles littering his skin. Jaskier had already noticed that there were surprisingly many sellswords around, men built like walking houses, strong and stable, scars as marks of honour pointing at their profession. 

It was just that this man wasn't a sellsword at all, or at least not in the usual sense, because not only did Jaskier know these scars down to the very last scratch, but he also knew that goddamn silver white hair, intimately so, and he hadn't seen it for a very long time. 

As if he knew he was being looked at Geralt raised his head and sat up, rolling his shoulders back and stretching his neck a little. He caught Jaskier's gaze, and for a moment they just stared at each other through the clouds of steam in perfect and unashamed surprise. 

Next to him Jaskier's acquaintance started to fidget, nervous at the sudden lack of attention. It was impossible to overlook that Jaskier had suddenly shifted his focus away from him, and the young man glanced at Geralt and immediately started to worry. 

"Careful, that's a witcher."

As if it were difficult to overlook, now that he was sitting upright, with all the horrific scars carved into his skin, the amber eyes and the silver medallion sitting solidly on his sternum. Jaskier nodded, whispering back, mindful of the rules of silence that were strict around these establishments.

"I know."

Then he got up, and without caring for the sanity of his acquaintance padded across the steam room. In passing he smiled at Geralt, motioned with his head towards the door, and exited the room. Outside the air was cool in comparison, and he shivered a little, picking his towel up from one of the pegs outside the steam room. He idly dried his face on it, and then looked up when he heard the door being opened and closed. He turned around finding himself face to face with Geralt. 

"Jaskier?"

For a moment Jaskier wondered what the etiquette for situations like this was. He hadn't seen Geralt in many month and an embrace was in order, but they where both naked and sweaty, and Jaskier wasn't sure if their friendship and maybe even he himself would survive such a sudden assault. He decided to not delve further into that problem, and instead patted Geralt on the just as naked and very sweaty shoulder fleetingly in a gesture that seemed socially acceptable but unlikely to get him pounced upon by a startled witcher. He felt a familiar tingle in his fingers at the touch and pulled his hand back, taking the feeling away with him for a moment before the contact spell died away, this small and uncommon witcher peculiarity betraying their magical abilities, a hint towards the fact that they weren't only fighting with their famous silver swords. 

Smiling Jaskier tried to remember when he had last seen Geralt and came up with a moment the previous summer, somewhere close to Cintra, a brief encounter before they had parted ways again. They always met like this, sometimes for longer periods of time, sometimes for just a few days before they went off on their own again, safe in the knowledge that they would stumble over each other once more at some moment, inopportune or not. 

"Geralt! What are you doing here?"

He watched Geralt shrug and raise an eyebrow at the rather idiotic question, given that it was rather obvious what exactly he was doing in this very moment. But before he could answer the door to the steam room opened, and Jaskier's acquaintance stumbled out. The young man stood in the escaping cloud of steam before closing the door behind him and taking his own towel off the peg. Drying his face first he then stood for a moment holding the towel, and stared. And Jaskier couldn't even be mad at him about it, because if he hadn't been already well acquainted with Geralt he'd have stared, too, and he took the opportunity to follow the young man's example and give Geralt a good once-over, just to understand what his acquaintance was looking at, of course.

It quickly dawned on him that while the young man was probably comparing himself with unfavourable results Geralt wasn't actually looking his very best. There wasn't a single hint of body fat leftover on him, his entire being a study in anatomy, marred skin pulled a little too tight over muscles and bones. It was most visible in his face, cheekbones protruding just a little too much, white stubble on his chin, tiredness leaving him with dark circles underneath his slightly sunken amber eyes. His hair had grown strangely long, falling way below his shoulders, a wet mess of silver white curling just a little in the humidity of the bathhouse that Jaskier was practically itching to comb and cut. But at least he seemed uninjured, no fresh scars or barely healed wounds on him, or at least none where Jaskier could have seen them from casting one glance over him. 

But even like this his appearance was enough to scare Jaskier's acquaintance away, suddenly looking slightly sour and without a further word turning around and vanishing down the corridor. 

It left Jaskier shaking his head and Geralt raising his eyebrow further. 

"I had no intention of ruining your night."

It was almost an apology, and Jaskier could easily accept it. 

"And yet you did, and now you'll have to make up for it. Come, let's sit somewhere and talk, or maybe take a dip in the pool and enjoy the water."

Geralt looked like he wanted to say something but decided against it, and, shrugging, followed Jaskier down the corridor towards the main basin. Minutes later they had rinsed the sweat from the steam rooms off and were sitting in the warm water, turned towards each other while lounging in the enjoyable cocoon of wet heat, ignoring the other patrons. The main basin was large enough to hold plenty of people while still granting them a modicum of privacy, the unspoken rules of not seeing anything or hearing anything that applied to everyone frequenting the bathhouse helping with the rest. 

And yet Jaskier had noticed that they had more space for themselves than he would have had if he hadn't been in Geralt's company, how even others that weren't entirely human or perfectly non-human had backed away, giving them a wide berth in the corridors, inching out of the way. They looked, briefly, and then quickly averted their eyes, trying not to draw the attention of the strange creature the witcher was even among this assembly of strangers. 

Sinking back against the tiles and stretching in the water Jaskier turned a little, and allowed his curiosity to take the lead. 

"I did not expect to find you here, at this time of the year."

And it was true. He had never met Geralt on the road this early in the year, and especially not on the road going towards Aedirn instead of away from it. In all the years he had known the witcher Jaskier had learned that he vanished from the roads come winter and only returned in spring when the snow had melted, making his way out of Kaedwen where he wintered somewhere high up in the mountains, in that strange fortress Jaskier knew he had originally come from. He would show up again somewhere in late spring, already well into another year of killing terrifying things with that impressive silver blade of his, usually just a little injured but otherwise well-fed and in reasonably good humour. It didn't make sense to find him here, on a spring night that was essentially still late winter, hungry and ragged, too tired. Whatever he had done this winter, it had not included sleeping the year off somewhere in the Kaedwen mountains, and it showed. 

"Got stuck down south in Nazair for the winter, and then moved too far east."

Now that easily explained why they had met here, too far east indeed, slightly off the trail Jaskier usually would find Geralt on. Nazair was also currently embroiled in the wars that were slowly spreading, a torn land, poor and destroyed while battling for its independence. It wasn't a good place to travel, but Jaskier knew that sometimes Geralt actively chose to move around war torn regions, trailing the outskirts of battlefields. Sometimes there was money for a witcher in situations like that, all sorts of beasts following the armies, feasting on the corpses and the destruction. 

"And they don't pay their witchers down there?"

Leaning back a little Geralt sighed, and then shrugged. 

"They do, and not too badly. But there's nothing left to spend the coin on anymore."

Well, that made sense as well. Where the country was burnt down there were no inns and taverns anymore, no farms to buy food off, no places to hide. And people on the run were desperate and became dangerous, easy to take offence or attack. It made for uneasy travelling, even for someone like the witcher, with two swords and impressive battle skills at his disposal. 

"I can imagine. So now you're moving upwards north again?"

Stretching his shoulders Jaskier watched Geralt lean back against the tiles just a little and nod. But it was obvious that he wasn't relaxed, despite the fact that the water was warm and soft and he looked properly scrubbed for once, smelling of the same scented soaps Jaskier had used. After travelling with Geralt for almost a decade Jaskier knew exactly how much the witcher loved the warmth and softness of the water, taking any chance to wash the dirt of the road and the remains of his last battle off his skin, letting his tired and always aching body sink into the heat and wait for the exhaustion in his muscles to slowly ease. 

But tonight he was on edge, even in the comfortable heat of the main basin, vigilant and alert. Jaskier saw it in the tension still coiled in his shoulders, the fact that he was only halfway listening to what Jaskier was saying and otherwise keeping watch to what was going on around him. He always did that, ever watching and calculating, but not that obviously. Geralt was a hunter by nature, a predator always looking out for prey and tracking every movement in his surroundings, but with the calm certainty that he was capable of controlling his environment and not the constant alertness of a creature depending on fleeing for survival.

There wasn't much of that calm certainty left over currently, and it left Jaskier to wonder how exactly he had spent the past winter, what had happened while he had traversed these battlefields. 

"It doesn't seem like you had a good winter."

Jaskier stated it as a fact, not a question, and Geralt only shrugged again. Knowing fully well that there was no story forthcoming Jaskier sighed, and instead decided to indulge Geralt with the tales of his own winter spent close to the courts of Cintra, with all the gossip and wonderful tales he had picked up there together with a fair bit of boasting over his success. 

It was only when behind them someone stepped into the water with a little too much momentum and Geralt veritably startled that Jaskier stopped the waterfall of his words, took a good and proper look at his companion and noticed that he was neglecting his role of enthusiastic audience massively. Pouting a little he splashed some water towards him and waited until Geralt's attention was back on him. 

"So you are not listening at all to my wonderful storytelling. That can't be, have you no manners?"

Grunting a reply Geralt rolled his neck a little, but he didn't elaborate. Standing up Jaskier took the opportunity to stare down at him, noticing the tiredness behind the amber eyes, the heaviness of his posture. 

"I have no wish to watch you drown in the basin because you fell asleep. You make the worst listener, but your corpse would be even more resistant to my charming tales and I haven't even started." 

Without waiting for Geralt to reply or react Jaskier climbed out of the basin, collected his towel and walked away. He wasn't three steps away when Geralt appeared next to him, moving with his usual silent grace, suddenly awake again and looking just a little like he was sorry. It was enough for Jaskier to show some mercy, just for once, and only because he hadn't seen Geralt for such a long time. He guided them both towards the changing rooms, and Geralt followed him willingly in an unusual display of compliance.

"And you still owe me for spoiling my evening. Listen, Witcher, you can make up for that and for almost ignoring me by keeping me some company tonight. We shall get ourselves dry and comfortable, and eat and talk as it is befitting for friends who haven't seen each other for so long."

To his credit Geralt didn't flinch at Jaskier's offer, but he didn't seem enamoured with the prospect. 

"It is rather late already, and I need to travel onwards."

Stopping in his tracks in the luckily empty changing room Jaskier frowned. 

"It's in the middle of the bloody night, why would you ride now?"

Tilting his head Geralt raised an eyebrow, seemingly wondering why Jaskier was asking stupid questions all of a sudden. 

"I've been travelling at night for at least two weeks now."

Then he walked over to the pegs on the walls where a rather meagre collection of his clothing hung, perfectly unobtrusive among the rows and rows of other cloaks and breeches and tunics, and started to dress. 

"That's terribly dangerous, even for you."

Finding his own clothing and silently rejoicing at the fact that everything was still there and had dried Jaskier absently-minded shook everything out once and then started to lace up his breeches and button cuffs while keeping half an eye on Geralt doing the same, pulling another of his ubiquitous dark shirts over his head, stamping feet into muddy boots. He twisted his long hair once to get the excess water out and then tied it back without much attention to it, not even bothering to comb through it with his fingers to get the tangles and knots out. 

"And yet far safer than moving in daylight would be."

Then they were both dressed and left the changing room, depositing their used towels in a large basket by the door. Marching towards the exit Jaskier briefly wondered where the hell Geralt had left his armour and weapons, and was immediately informed about it when the dwarf at the door whistled for his companion upon seeing Geralt. They waited briefly and another dwarf appeared, handing the witcher his belongings in exchange for a few coin. Geralt swiftly but thoroughly inspected his few possessions and then nodded towards the dwarf. Carrying everything easily he left the bathhouse, quickly followed by Jaskier. 

Outside it was cold and still raining, and Jaskier immediately shivered in the wet night. But he followed Geralt like he always did, towards the roof where the horses were, where Roach stood waiting. She snorted upon seeing both of them, almost dry herself and apparently having been fed by one of the dwarves with hay. Geralt rubbed her long nose gently once, and she flicked her ears at Jaskier and allowed him to pet her neck. Up close she looked well cared for and nicely fed, and Jaskier wasn't surprised in the slightest to find that she was in excellent health when Geralt looked like he had gone hungry for a while now. 

Idly petting her neck Jaskier watched Geralt distribute his few bags around the saddle, fixing both of his blades amongst them, his thick cloak thrown over his shoulders. 

"You can't be serious, travelling in that weather. Stay the night, there's a tavern here. You can continue tomorrow morning when the rain has stopped." 

Turning around Geralt looked ever so slightly exasperated. 

"The tavern won't rent me a room or sell me food. And tomorrow morning the roads will be full of travellers, Bard, amongst them the guards from the villages, the patrols looking for those they do not wish to see amongst their own kind, that have been expressly forbidden to enter this area. Have you not seen the signs posted on the roads, at the entrances to the villages, hung on trees? Didn't you see the pyres burn well into the night? Because I have, for weeks now."

Bloody hell, of course Jaskier had. But the signs hadn't applied to him and while he hadn't forgotten, it had slipped his mind that what did not apply to oh-so-human Jaskier well applied to Geralt, the witcher the exact type of creature they didn't want in this area anymore, balanced precariously on the thin line between human and not-quite-human-anymore, though even Jaskier couldn't find an appropriate word to state what Geralt exactly was and found it much easier to define the witcher by what he was not. 

And if he applied the same tactic now he came to the easy conclusion that Geralt was not safe, not rested and not well-fed. And while Jaskier could do nothing against the pyres and the hatred, against the fact that his friend was riding under the cover of darkness like a bloody criminal fleeing justice he could do something against cold and hungry, against worried and lonely. 

"I have, the horror was hard to overlook. Forgive me my carelessness. But still, come and rest with me for a night, and the day if you want to. I have a room in the tavern, a proper bed and dry sheets will do you well and nobody will know you were there. Eat something, sleep a while, and tomorrow night you can move on. Maybe the rain will have stopped by then and travelling will be easier and quicker so you can leave these wretched lands soon."

Roach snorted as if she agreed, though Jaskier wasn't a fool and knew Roach always had her own ideas. But he watched Geralt absently-minded turn back to her and gently rub her forehead and then scratch behind her ears until she flicked them again and nudged her head against his chest. Watching him Jaskier listened to the heavy rain, feeling the warmth the visit in the bathhouse had brought to his bones slowly drain away again. He knew his room wasn't overly comfortable or well-heated, but at least it would be dry and he longed to return there, if necessary through the back door. 

And that was exactly what they did, Geralt having left some of his bags and Roach in the care of the dwarves for the night who willingly took some coin and promised to keep her dry and well-fed with good hay and clean water and to watch her until Geralt would pick her up again the next evening. Together they walked through the darkness through the perfectly empty streets, Geralt carrying the things he hadn't left behind, his weapons and the bag with the potions, the most important of the very few possessions he had anyway, keeping to the shadows of the houses, moving noiselessly.

It was strange to sneak him in through the back door of the tavern, but Jaskier had done these or similar things so many times that the only thing that amused him about the scenario was that he usually opened back doors to interested partners for nightly trysts and not to already wet and overtired witchers. 

But then he had Geralt up in his small room in front of the fireplace, had pulled up the one chair that had come with the room and even managed to find a second one, and gone down to the tap room to request food. He chatted to the sour-looking owner of the tavern while he waited for the food to appear, paid handsomely as not to elicit any questions, and then carried his treasure upstairs. There was nothing to brag about on the tray, but the stew was hearty and with plenty of meat, and Jaskier had made sure to request a very large bowl and double the amount of bread, together with a jug of ale. 

It was enough to feed a hungry witcher with and yield a little on the side for Jaskier to nibble on, but it took a while before he had convinced Geralt that he was supposed to eat most of it. It reminded Jaskier of the early years of their companionship, the days of his youth and how Geralt had always made sure Jaskier was properly fed without ever allowing anyone to think he was actually caring for the annoying boy trailing in his wake, that he kept him alive and more or less healthy, watching out for Jaskier without even turning to look at him for weeks sometimes. 

Watching Geralt eat while chewing on a slice of bread himself Jaskier mused on how many years had passed since they had met, and remembered a few of their more chaotic early adventures. He only returned to the present when Geralt offered him the final slice of bread and Jaskier waved him off. 

"No, eat up. You look too thin, I never thought that would happen to a witcher. When was the last time you had a meal in proper human company?"

Devouring the bread Geralt shrugged before washing it down with some ale. Then he carefully gathered the bowl and wooden spoon he had used, and rose to deposit everything on the tray Jaskier had left close to the door, always organised and tidy. Returning to the chair he picked up the tankard Jaskier had brought up from the tap room, and leant back. 

"Why would I need human company? There aren't many intact villages down south anymore, and the weather was shite all winter. I take Kaedwen ice and snow over this dreadful wet misery anytime."

Laughing Jaskier stretched his legs towards the fire. 

"I don't know if anyone would agree with you about Kaedwen winters, but indeed it has been raining a lot. And why would you want human company, well, here I am and human I am indeed."

Shrugging Geralt rubbed the back of his head with his free hand, idly combing a hand through his heavy and still wet hair, tugging on the knots and tangles without much patience.

"Human and stupid. This tavern has a large sign stating there should be no non-human on the premises on penalty of prison, and yet you brought me here." 

There was something scrutinising in his face, his amber eyes glowing faintly in the light of the fireplace, still weary and tired and yet a lot less guarded than just an hour earlier. The food had done him well, Jaskier realised, and maybe the fact that there was someone sitting opposite of him who wasn't flinching away or running to hand him over to the authorities to throw him into a cage and later dispatch of him on a pyre. Smiling, Jaskier folded his hands over his stomach, keeping his eyes on Geralt, enjoying the way the shadows of the fire were draping themselves over his features. 

"Alas, you know me well. If I go to prison for feeding you it will have been worth it, hungry isn't pretty on you." 

Raising an eyebrow Geralt stopped fiddling with his hair and dropped his hand, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He had hung his cloak up on the peg behind the door and discarded his tunic, and since he routinely kept his dark shirts not properly laced up Jaskier saw the silver medallion Geralt wore around his neck sitting on his chest, the silver glimmering in the warm glow from the fire. 

"Last time you ended up in prison you complained endlessly about the lack of comfort, so I cannot see you enjoy that prospect. Still, I admit I have to thank you. I will pay you back, of course."

Waving an elegant hand through the air Jaskier brushed the argument away. 

"No need for that, save your coin."

But Geralt was stubborn. 

"It's not an issue. My purse is doing well for once, coin aplenty but nowhere to spend it. Let me pay you back, you don't need to extend your charity to me."

Briefly Jaskier felt a little offended, and then pushed the feeling away again firmly. He knew too well what Geralt actually was trying to say, and it had nothing to do with money and everything with being incapable of accepting help of any kind, no matter from whom it came. 

"Don't be an imbecile and let me do something for you for once, it won't hurt your pride. We've known each other for a long time now, and the law of friendship dictates offerings to be taken graciously."

He said it jokingly, but as always the mention of anything that implied relationships or actual connection made Geralt flinch like no approaching whirlwind of teeth and claws attached to a monster ever could. He looked at his hands and then into the fire, turning his head away from Jaskier so he didn't have to answer, his face set into a careful display of neutrality. With a sigh Jaskier drank the last sip from the cup with ale he was holding and put it down next to his chair. 

"I see you're still working on the last part. So where have you spent all winter, dwelling in caves and eating whatever you could catch while the rain kept falling?"

Geralt shrugged, but turned his head back and looked at Jaskier again. 

"That describes it quite accurately, yes."

With a shrug Jaskier realised that he absolutely meant it, and wrinkled his nose. 

"I'm glad I haven't encountered you before the bathhouse, then. It must have been terrible. Weren't you afraid you might have alerted anyone looking for you with your stench? Living in caves! What, wrapped in furs and probably growling at anything coming near, with your strange hair wild around your head. Did you weave bowstrings from your tresses to pass the time?"

He kept his voice gentle, but mocking Geralt was always fun and Jaskier had ample experience with annoying him just a little. And his spectacular hair would probably actually provide ample material for bowstrings if Geralt would just set his mind to it, and Jaskier could only imagine that they'd be of superb quality if woven correctly.

The reaction came as Jaskier had expected it, Geralt growling slightly and drinking from his own tankard. 

"Bowstrings! What do you think I am, a bloody elven maiden?"

Grinning Jaskier leant forward, placed his elbows on his knees and fluttered his lashes at Geralt for good measure. 

"With that hair I wouldn't be too sure. Are your ears pointed? I should check some day."

Geralt seemed close to hissing at Jaskier, just a little, just for the sake of it. 

"Pointed ears are the last thing I have or need. I've meant to cut the hair, there was just no time for it when I was busy with more important things."

More important things usually meant contracts, monsters and money, but Jaskier had the sneaking suspicion that in this particular case Geralt's focus might have shifted from earning coin towards surviving, especially in the past weeks as he had inevitably moved through the same bigoted landscape Jaskier had, riding at night when the roads were crawling with unsavoury creatures of any calling and origin. 

"Of course. There is time tonight, if you want me to do it."

It seemed an easy solution, and Jaskier offered with the same easiness with which he offered Geralt everything, meaning what he said. As he had expected Geralt shook his head. 

"You don't have to."

Rubbing his face Jaskier sighed, putting his entire slight exasperation into it. 

"Gods above, Geralt, just accept that sometimes people want to do things for you. So, let me ask again, do you wish me to cut your hair? It's not even dry yet, and we have nothing to do tonight."

For a moment Geralt looked incapable of finding a good answer, having no clue what he could say. The silence lasted a long moment before he finally gave himself a push and nodded. 

"If you don't mind." 

Savouring the surprised feeling Jaskier shook his head, and got up. 

"On the contrary, it's my pleasure. I sing about you all the time, you need to look at least slightly civilised so people won't think my taste is off or my songs lie."

Watching Jaskier move through the room Geralt looked a little unsure about the whole scenario but absolutely aware of the fact that he wasn't going to get out of it anymore. 

"Your songs are lies, Jaskier. All of them."

Picking up one of his bags Jaskier returned to the fire and placed it on the chair he had just sat on. 

"Nonsense! What you call lies are small artistic liberties, nothing else." 

Digging through his bag Jaskier produced the wooden comb he had been looking for, the little vial of almond oil he used for his hands and face sometimes and the small scissors he kept with his sewing kit. Straightening he turned to Geralt and gave a few orders, and a moment later Geralt had moved his chair a little so that Jaskier could work with the light from the fireplace angled perfectly. Standing behind him Jaskier looked down on his head, an unusual perspective he rarely had. Geralt seemed not perfectly happy with how the situation had turned out, and Jaskier gently placed his hands on his shoulders for a moment to get him used to the closeness. 

He felt the slight stiffening of Geralt's shoulders and then how he purposefully relaxed them, once again wondering at the way Geralt shied away from touch whenever possible, even when it came from a slight creature as Jaskier was, whom Geralt could kill with a twist of his hands easily and without batting an eye. 

Lifting his hands again Jaskier tugged at the tie holding Geralt's hair back, undoing it and watching the silver white mess fall down the witcher's back, heavy and still wet. Combing his hands through it Jaskier tried not to tug on it or hit any knots, slowly detangling the worst. The scent of the soaps from the bathhouse was strong in his nose now, mostly lavender and a hint of sage. 

"So how short do you want it?"

Geralt titled his head back just a little, almost imperceptibly leaning into Jaskier's hands in what had to be an involuntary movement. But Jaskier noticed, well-versed in the miniscule changes of Geralt's body language after years of a rather taciturn friendship, and with gentle pressure continued what was essentially a caress disguised as practical help, briefly wondering how long it had been that someone had put their hands on his friend with good intentions and if Geralt would be able to tell if someone asked him.

"The usual."

That meant just above the shoulders, and nodding Jaskier leant over to pick up the comb, casually letting a hand rest on Geralt's shoulder for a moment. Then he focused on the task at hand, running the comb through the long strands carefully to get the last knots out, watching the hair slip through the teeth of the comb, silver white against the dark ebony wood. 

"So let me tell you about my winter, now that you can't run away."

He felt Geralt sigh more than he saw it, a small movement of his shoulders as he surrendered to the inevitable, and Jaskier picked up the thread of his tales again easily while combing and brushing his hands through Geralt's hair long after the last knots were out, the stories serving as an excellent distraction to mask the moment Jaskier's touch ceased to have any utilitarian background behind it. 

Still prattling away he finally placed the comb down and picked up the scissors, and, hesitating for just a short moment, started to cut off the excess hair until it was just the length Geralt preferred it at, long enough to be tied back still but so it wouldn't bother him or turn into a white bird's nest anytime soon. He made sure to catch the cut-off strands so they wouldn't make a mess on the floor, and for a moment he was so focused on the process of combing and cutting that his endless storytelling petered out. 

The room was quiet but for the metallic sounds of the scissors and the occasional crackling of the fire, and Jaskier could hear the rain patter softly against the windows, feel the motions of Geralt's breathing, his shoulders moving barely perceptibly. 

When he was done Jaskier stepped back and looked at his masterpiece, satisfied with the result of his careful work. Kicking a bit of cut-off hair away with his foot he nodded to himself and returned to stand behind Geralt, raising his hand to run it through what remained of his hair. 

His fingertips brushed over Geralt's shoulder and Jaskier nearly dropped the scissors when Geralt flinched violently, apparently having dozed off under Jaskier's careful hands and awakening again with a start. 

"Gods above, don't scare me like that."

Murmuring something that could have been an apology Geralt growled a little, and rubbed his face once. 

"Done?"

Nodding Jaskier walked around him and deposited his scissors and the comb in his bag. 

"Almost, wait another moment."

He watched Geralt raise an eyebrow, but he didn't move. Picking up the small vial with the almond oil Jaskier returned to his former place behind Geralt, picked the cork off the vial and let a few drops of the oil fall into his palms. The vial found a temporary home in the pockets of his breeches with the cork returned to it firmly and he rubbed his palms together to distribute the oil evenly. Then he brushed both hands through Geralt's hair, letting the thick strands glide through his fingers, gently working the oil into the hair until it was heavy and soft in Jaskier's hands, the silver white bright in the warm light of the fireplace. 

The scent of almonds spread in the room, warm and sweet, and Jaskier noticed Geralt inhaling covertly. He had again tipped his head back ever so slightly into Jaskier's hands, and looking at him from above Jaskier noticed that his eyes had drifted close again, the eternal frown on his face slowly melting away. 

"You need to go to bed and sleep, it will be more comfortable."

But despite his words Jaskier didn't stop the soft movement, not wanting to break the moment just yet, happy to offer this small gesture and just a little proud that his hands were enough for Geralt as a temporary refuge from the vileness spreading outside. Geralt didn't reply, apparently drifting off until Jaskier decided that it was enough, that there was no point in letting Geralt sleep in the chair when there was a comfortable bed available. 

So Jaskier brushed his hands over Geralt's forehead one last time and dropped his hands, allowing himself just a little smile. 

"Come on, get up. It's not far, bed's just over there."

It took a moment, but then Geralt growled and stretched his neck a little, suddenly capable of moving again, albeit slowly. He was obviously tired beyond measure, and Jaskier gave him a little space, stepping back and pulling the vial from his pockets to return it to his bags. 

"So when's the last time you've slept, properly, for an entire night somewhere safe?"

Running his own hands through his hair once to see what Jaskier had done there Geralt seemed satisfied with the new length and then shrugged. 

"Don't remember."

His voice was darkened by tiredness, but he appeared to be slightly embarrassed at the admission and his unbecoming display of drowsiness. He seemed to wake up slowly again, and Jaskier knew exactly what would happen then. He could already see Geralt head out the door with nothing but a murmured thanks and a bowed head, out into the night, unable to cope with the sheer tenderness Jaskier had displayed and embarrassed at his own inability to refuse it. 

"Then off to bed you go. Don't look at me like that, I don't care about your growling and frowning. Sheets should be clean, reasonably so, and there's even a proper pillow."

Rubbing his face again Geralt shook his head. 

"It's your bed, not mine. I can sleep on the floor."

Snorting Jaskier picked up his bag from the chair and sat down, glaring just a little. 

"You left your bedroll with the dwarves, and you won't get mine. Don't make a fuss, Witcher. You can put a knife under your pillow if you're afraid of me slitting your throat tonight, but go to sleep."

Jaskier knew exactly that this was an absolute ridiculous assumption, as if he'd never get close enough to Geralt to do anything harmful to him. But it did the trick, and while Geralt growled something incomprehensible he very slowly got up, and moved through the room. With worry Jaskier watched him undress with all the grace of a sleepwalker, yet carefully hanging his clothing over the back of the chair, arranging everything neatly. Finally he sat on the edge of the bed in only his smallclothes, barely able to keep his eyes open. 

"You don't have to do this."

With a sigh Jaskier felt himself soften, still holding the small bag in his lap. 

"No, but I want to. Sleep, I'll sit up for a moment longer and then join you. Bed's large enough for two."

That was a blatant lie and Geralt knew it, but he was apparently too tired to question Jaskier's intention any longer. Finally crawling into the bed he stretched out, leaving the blanket on the side in case Jaskier wanted to use it later. Rolling on his side he exhaled with barely hidden content, and to his amusement Jaskier could exactly pinpoint the moment he fell asleep seconds later, exhaustion taking him over and pulling him under at worrying speed. 

It left Jaskier with nothing to do but to put away his bag as quietly as possible and return to the more comfortable of the two chairs, stretching out his legs. He was tired himself, but even though he had claimed he'd go to bed soon himself he had no intention to do so right away. Instead he crossed his arms and let his head drop back, watching the room in the half darkness of the now slowly dying fire. 

For a moment he idly listened to the rain hitting the window, the soft background noise relaxing him. In passing he wondered how he'd ended up there, in this sad tavern, sitting watch over a sleeping witcher. Or maybe rather over a resting friend, he mused, as he watched Geralt's silent shape on the bed, limp with sleep, the heavy body perfectly still besides the occasional movement of his ribcage with every breath he took. 

It was a body he knew well by now, and still a man who remained a complete mystery to Jaskier even on good days. Their friendship had lasted long enough now to turn into the steady foundation of Jaskier's life, something he didn't doubt nor question anymore. And apparently neither did Geralt, or at least not too intensely, trusting Jaskier enough to follow him into a tavern he was not welcome in, to stretch out on the bed undressed and unarmed, with only Jaskier there so sit watch over him. 

It made Jaskier a little proud, knowing that Geralt considered him worthy of that trust, especially right then and there, with the pyres burning outside and patrols looking for more living flesh to fuel them with every day. And Jaskier was no fool and had listened when Geralt talked, rare an occasion as it was, and he remembered the stories the witcher had told him, even those that had been too painful to be turned into songs. He knew the stories behind the scars, and that not all of them came from heroic deeds and dreadful yet successfully fought battles. 

Some had come from other incidents, and even from where he sat now he could see the web of scars dug deep into Geralt's right calf where the skin was still almost white and no hair would grow, a gruesome web bitten into his skin by hungry flames from a pyre the witcher had ended up on decades ago, and that he had barely managed to escape from. Geralt hadn't quite been forthcoming with details and only mentioned that it had been a desperate escape at the very last minute, and looking at the scars that night Jaskier knew that this was why the pyres burning here held a different type of horror for Geralt than for Jaskier, who could imagine how the flames would hurt but did not have first-hand knowledge of the feeling of impending death by fire. 

So Jaskier sat and watched and left his thoughts to wander, a silent sentinel in the darkness that expanded as the fire died, listening to the rain and Geralt's regular breathing. He remained in the chair much longer than he had originally anticipated, unwilling to give up his post even as sleep was pulling at him with her strong fingers. It was almost dawn when he finally succumbed, undressed and slipped into the small free space on the bed that was not taken up by Geralt. Jaskier arranged himself carefully as not to wake Geralt, gratefully wrapped himself in the blanket and finally fell asleep, his nose inches away from the marred skin stretched over Geralt's back, the body heat he radiated enough to warm Jaskier even though they were barely touching. 

He woke up rather late the next morning feeling a little stiff from not having had much space in the bed but otherwise reasonably refreshed. Geralt was still asleep even in the weak daylight, a sure sign towards the fact that he hadn't been lying when he had admitted to not remembering sleeping properly for a while. Knowing him Jaskier didn't expect him to wake up anytime soon, so he detangled himself from the blanket before gently depositing it over Geralt and slipping out of bed quietly. He stretched carefully and dressed, taking the dirty dishes from the last night down with him to the tap room. 

There he found a little miserable breakfast and paid for the room for a second night before venturing out. It had mercifully stopped raining, and he walked through the little town for a while before eating lunch at the market from a stall and picking up a few supplies including reasonably fresh bread. When he returned to the tavern and the room he found that Geralt had woken up. The room was arranged neatly, the bed made and Geralt fully dressed again, his freshly cut hair tied back neatly. He had also stoked the fire, and was now kneeling on the floor in front of it, hands on his knees, relaxed in deep meditation, apparently taking the chance of having a reasonably safe space all to himself to take care of his mental equilibrium in this very particular way.

Jaskier knew that there was no point in trying to communicate with him now, so he simply deposited his few purchases and laid the bread out in case Geralt would become hungry and slipped out again, taking his lute with him. He went down to the tap room and to his surprise managed to gather a small crowd that was willing to listen to a few songs, tame ones of course, nothing that could upset the sensibilities of a population in the throes of righteousness and hatred. It wasn't that he enjoyed singing for them, but coin was coin, and life with coin was always better than one without. 

The afternoon slipped by quickly and darkness fell, and Jaskier remained in the tap room for another bowl of stew and more bread and ale, and then sang again because his audience requested a few pious tunes he performed without much dedication but enough fake devotion. When he was done with collecting their coins and their pointless blessings it had started to rain again, and the night outside was dark and wet. 

He shuddered at the thought of venturing outside, and quickly climbed up the stairs to the room, fully expecting to find Geralt in the armchair, feet propped up and fiddling with this or that weapon or part of his armour. 

Instead the room was empty. Geralt had set everything into perfect order and disappeared as if he'd never been there, leaving not a trace behind. Frustrated Jaskier turned around once, deposited the lute on the bed and reached for his cloak. Outside the rain was falling determinedly but not too intensely, and he hasted to the bathhouse to see if he couldn't at least catch Geralt for a final conversation. But he had barely reached the outskirts of town and saw the bathhouse, windows bright with lights and torches outside when he noticed the figure on horseback vanishing towards the main road, dark cloak draped over him, hood pulled up and deep over his face. He wasn't wearing his swords on his back as he usually did, keeping his blades well-hidden amongst his bags, avoiding the too obvious signs of his profession and nature.

Stopping at the corner of the last house on the edge of town Jaskier considered shouting to catch Geralt's attention, but stopped himself. It wouldn't do to draw unnecessary attention, not when Jaskier wasn't keen on provoking an outbreak of violence with unclear outcome.

So he let Geralt leave, watching Roach fall into a slightly faster gait, nudged forwards determinedly into the night. With a pang of sadness Jaskier stood at the corner, his own hood pulled up as far as it would go, rain falling on his shoulders and soaking his boots. It would be a cold and lonely journey on the roads this night, where only those moved that had to avoid daylight, unsavoury creatures as well as those that by no fault of their own had become outlaws in these vile times. It made for a bad mixture and Jaskier had to remind himself that Geralt was an excellent fighter, that which spelt deathly danger for Jaskier was only an annoyance for him, unwilling as he tended to be to pull his swords unless it was absolutely unavoidable. And yet Jaskier couldn't help but worry, knowing Geralt would need to make haste, to travel as fast as possible to find a safe hiding space where he could vanish during the day, predator having become prey. 

All Jaskier could do was to silently wish him luck and hope for the best, that they'd meet again somewhere this year, hopefully under better circumstances and in better weather. With a heavy sigh he returned to the tavern, took the backdoor just to avoid the tap room, and shaking the rain off his cloak marched up to his room. 

There he hung the cloak up and slipped out of his muddy boots. It wasn't late but he was suddenly tired, the lack of sleep from the last night making him drowsy. There was nothing left for him to do, and so he slipped out of his clothing and into the bed, this time favouring the side where Geralt had been lying the previous night. With a sigh he put his head on the pillow, the blankets cold around him, not yet warmed by his own body heat. 

For a moment he breathed in and smelt the unmistakable scent of almond oil, lavender and the particular scents Geralt tended to carry with him on the pillow, and he curled himself up comfortably with the knowledge that somewhere on the roads up north there was a witcher travelling in the rain, vigilant and probably drenched by the cold rain, but at least with properly cut hair that would continue to smell of almond oil for a few more days, the scent maybe the send off Jaskier hadn't been able to give him. It was a small token of friendship Geralt would carry around with himself as he rode through the landscape of fear, moving in the darkness until he had reached friendlier areas where he could take his hood off again and return to daylight, no longer hunted and fleeing the long fingers of hatred. 

It was that image Jaskier took with him as he drifted off, and he slept well that night, in his dreams walking down long roads leading through meadows in full bloom next to Geralt with his swords solidly on his back, listening to Jaskier's songs while pretending he hated the music and shaking his head. It was such a lovely image that Jaskier felt refreshed the next morning when he woke up and set out again into the grey and wet days of an early March, and when he took out his comb three days later at a different tavern to arrange his hair before a performance he suddenly remembered it upon finding a single silver white hair entangled in the teeth of the comb. 

Picking it out and watching it drift away on the draught in the room Jaskier idly thought of that image of a road in summer, almost feeling the sunshine on his face for a moment, the warmth of a long day spent walking beside each other, the promise of a calm evening by the fire. He took that feeling with him as he finished his routine of arranging his person for the stage, replaced the comb in his bag and took his lute downstairs with him, ready for a night of song and coin, his mind firmly in the moment and focused on his performance while the scent of a warm summer breeze inexplicably remained stuck in his nose.

**Author's Note:**

> "Silent friend of many distances / feel how your breath still multiplies all space" is taken from the poem "XXIX. Second Part" by Rainer Maria Rilke. 
> 
> This was originally the opening chapter to a very long fic ("Hibernating with Ghosts"), but it got cut due to reasons of plot coherency. I decided to work on it a little and instead post it as a one-shot, so it can function as a little appetizer for the full fic where a lot of the themes hinted on here are picked up on again (and there's more plot.). It is not actually a prequel because it has taken on a life of its own - but it does fit into the general storyarch of "Hibernating".
> 
> And if you've already read HWG, well, hello! This is the "Chapter 0" I kept promising, and that I decided to post on its own instead of as bonus content because it was too long and had evolved into something that I thought could - and should - stand on its own.
> 
> Now with less typos thanks to LovelyRita1967, who by now will probably never get rid of me again. Thanks, Rita!


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